


hypnotic

by Eguinerve



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Asexuality Spectrum, Cultural Differences, Falling In Love, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Siren!Maleagant, Sirens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: The siren's song finds its victim.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 24





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I think we all can agree that Mal makes a perfect little mermaid. Right? Cool. No, I don't know why I'm posting this either.

There is a storm raging in the Upside world. The skies crack open with thunder and lightning and the rain pours into the sea, connecting two realms. 

The air smells of something sharp and fresh, it smells of _freedom_ that seems within the reach and yet so far away.

Maleagant’s gills flutter uselessly, his body is confused about where to draw the air from and his lungs constrict as he takes a deeper breath. His fingers clutch the wet stone while his tail moves constantly to keep him in one place. 

He got too far away from home. 

His curiosity got the better of him, the change of weather took him by surprise. If he tries to go back now, he surely will lose his way in the murky waters, worn down and exhausted from fighting the currents. 

King Bagdemagus always scorned him for his obsession with the upside life. He never shared his wife’s gentle indulgence towards their child’s fascination with useless human trinkets and tales and _songs_. 

_Those_ he hated most. 

Crude, lacking both true melody and the magic granted by it, they seemed distasteful for the king, but Maleagant found them— different. 

_Different_ just like he’s always felt himself. 

Though deep in his heart he knows that the human world is much more foreign to him than his own could ever be, something foolish and hopeful in him still longs to find acceptance in that strange, unknown, _forbidden_ realm. 

The stone crumbles under Maleagant’s fingers as he pushes himself out of the water and on the flat surface of the rock. It scrapes his tail, the dull golden scales give way to the more durable black ones. 

He has the royal coloring, deeper and richer than his father’s, but that’s the only thing he’s ever been praised for by his kin. Even his _voice_ is more of a curse than a gift, no matter how powerful it is, capable of bending even the strongest of wills. 

_Human_ wills, and it is _useless_ when the war between their species is over. 

The peace is over too. 

To humans, they simply ceased to exist. Like all of the merfolk, Maleagant is forbidden from wandering too far away from the deep waters. He _can’t_ break the rules and end their carefully maintained separation from fickle, emotional humans. 

Emotional like _Maleagant_. 

Even the strength of his voice isn’t enough to temper his rebellious heart. 

Maleagant squints, trying to make out behind the wall of rain the shores of Camelot, the capital of Britain. The kingdom of human arrogance, their immense ambition and greed. 

It was _their_ fault the peace had ended when King Ambrosius built his age of prosperity on disregard for merpeople’s lives, when his armada sailed the free waters, leaving behind only ruin and waste, scaring the fish and breaking the ages-old reefs. 

As the years passed by, the merfolk were driven further and further into the depths of the sea, too prideful to beg for mercy. They protected themselves by being far away and _hidden_ and then forgotten far too quickly, even if it was for the best. 

Now, all that’s left of their resistance is spite. 

A few of Maleagant’s kin possess enough of it to break the law and seek vengeance for the once suffered insult. Stalking the shipways, they sing to the sailors, fueled by anger and desire to hurt. They sink the boats to the very bottom of the sea, they raid them for trinkets and gold, all but useless to most, but _precious_ to Maleagant, who never fails to buy them in a not-so-well-kept secret. 

It’s never spite that fills _him_ when he thinks of humans. 

Perhaps he should resent them for having their glory while the merfolk kingdom suffers. Perhaps he should _hate_ them as his father does, but for all the abundance of emotions that his heart possesses there isn’t any place left for _those_.

Maleagant knows that life wouldn’t be any sweeter if his home were a little bit closer to the surface or if there were more fish in his belly. He’d still be shunned and condemned for the things beyond his control, his arrogance and his temper and being too much like _them_ — 

For cradling darkness in his heart. 

It is that darkness that calls for him now, restless and alive. It spreads, spills from his heart, fills up his lungs and mixes with the air. 

It wants _out_ and Maleagant can’t _hold_ it. 

He takes another breath. He opens his mouth and lets the sound come. His plea, his curse, his mourning.

A song flies from his lips, beautiful and haunting. It intertwines with the wailing of the wind and the crackle of thunder. The strength of it is _overwhelming_ , it ripples through Maleagant, it grows and consumes— 

It would _frighten_ him if there were a place left for fear. 

It would frighten his kin if they were here to listen. 

It reaches far into the sea and covers the waves like an oily film. It searches for _someone_ to hear it and to _come_ to him— 

This is what he wants. This is what he _needs_. 

This could be his war song but it’s not the blood of his enemies he seeks, there are no enemies _left._ It is a different desire that spills from him and fuels his magic and shapes it into _the call._ The one that will destroy the will and take away the choice, because it’s not and never will be in human’s power to deny him. 

Maleagant sings. 

He sings for someone that may not be there to hear him, but try as he might he can’t hold his magic at bay. 

He sings like he never did before. The birds in the sky lose their balance and dive into the sea, the fish scurries away, frightened by the bigger and deadlier predator. The sea knows to fear him, but the warm-blooded will _submit_ to him.

Maleagant sings. 

He sings for himself because he cannot _not_ to, he’s through with denying what he is. 

He sings— 

Until his song reaches whom it’s been searching for.


	2. ocean dug so deep

Arthur’s entire body aches. He’s bruised in the places he didn’t know was possible to bruise, and though he breathes just fine it feels like there is still saltwater lingering in his lungs, its aftertaste in his mouth stinging and sharp and _familiar._

He nearly drowned. 

He _should’ve_ drowned judging by what his hazy memory suggests. Going into the sea on a flimsy boat in the middle of a raging storm was nothing but _suicide_ , and he doesn’t have the faintest idea what possessed him to do that, he— 

Arthur reluctantly opens his eyes. 

In the faint light of glowing fungus, he sees the ceiling of a cave above him and stalactites hanging low above his head. The waves are sloshing against the stone floor, high enough that they can’t reach it, and there is no way Arthur got here on his own. He wasn’t simply washed ashore, someone must’ve _rescued_ him when he fell off the boat, losing his grip on the wet wood, when he let the sea take him, saltwater filling his lungs until he could no longer breathe— 

Digging his elbows into the floor, Arthur tries to sit up. The pain in his body flares sharply, making him groan and hiss a curse through his teeth. He has no idea how he’s going to get back home or if it’s even _possible_. 

He didn’t get that far from the shore, but who knows where he is _now_. 

There is a loud splash to his right that sounds _different_ from the rhythmic sloshing of waves. Arthur turns his head abruptly, hoping it might be his savior, someone willing to help him again when there is no other choice but to ask for it. 

The light provided by the fungus is faint, but it’s enough to make out the shape of a man half-submerged in water, only his bare shoulders and head visible above. 

The man is watching him. His gaze is searching, _intense_ , and Arthur can’t help but return it. He stares back, drinking in every feature of his rescuer. 

Indeed, it is a _man_ , his shoulders are broad and his face lacks feminine softness, although his hair — wet, inky black curls — is longer than Arthur’s ever seen men wear. He’s _beautiful_ too, exotic and otherworldly, the lines of his face enchantingly sharp. Arthur could swear he’s never seen the cheekbones so defined, the curve of the mouth so perfectly shaped. But then— 

Then, he finally notices the other thing. The one that suggests this might not be his rescuer but the _opposite_ of it, not human but a _beast_ luring unsuspecting people into the darkest depths of the sea. 

On the long, graceful neck of this creature, there are thin, symmetrical lines, the skin around them fluttering ever so slightly. The _gills_. A mark of the merfolk. 

A lot of people claimed them to be nothing but _legends_ , imaginary creatures from sailors’ tales, but though no one could prove their existence, too many were _gone_ with glimpses of scaled tails and beautiful, haunting songs. 

The creature finally catches him staring and its mouth curves into a semblance of a smile. 

“I see you’re finally awake,” it says, its voice light and smooth, _pleasant_ , although it’s nothing but a trap. “ _Good_. I feared the sea might’ve claimed your soul.” 

Arthur blinks dumbly, bewildered by the creature’s words. 

Didn’t it _want_ him dead? Called by the sea, dragged into its deepest pits for his flesh to be ripped from his bones and devoured without mercy? 

He carefully sits up. He can’t help but notice that his feet are bare and his boots are carefully placed by the wall. The creature must’ve tugged them off, either tending to his comfort or having entirely different things in its mind, though Arthur fails to imagine _which_. 

One again, he makes himself meet the creature’s gaze. Its eyes, he thinks, are greenish-gray, the color of a stormy sea, just as _intense_ , though not exactly hostile. 

“Where am I?” Arthur asks, his voice raspy and weak. “Why am I— alive?” 

_For how long_ , he doesn’t ask. 

There is no evidence to suggest merpeople didn’t like to play with their food. 

The creature keeps silent, tilting its head as if to judge him better. There is a tiny frown between its eyebrows, something displeased in the curve of its mouth that makes Arthur feel vaguely and inexplicably inadequate. 

It’s an unfortunately familiar feeling. A couple of months ago, mother hosted a feast in honor of one of King Uther’s old friends, Sir Leodegrace, which, as Arthur learned later, served the sole purpose of introducing him to Lady Guinevere. Lovely as she seemed, she also used to _look_ at him with pretty much the same expression as if no matter how noble his blood was everything else remained— _lacking_. 

Arthur finds out that it stings just as much if not more when it’s a sea dweller he failed to impress and not a pretty yet rather shallow dame. 

The creature shifts, then folds their hands on the stone floor of the cave. Its fingers are generously adorned with rings, intricate and shiny trinkets Arthur didn’t know could be found or made underwater. 

“You are not enthralled,” the creature says slowly, _wonderingly_. “My song no longer has any power over you.” 

The _song_. 

Arthur remembers it now, it slips through the fog in his mind, a wistful, otherworldly melody that called for him, filled his heart with yearning and aching _need_. 

There was no chance to fight it. 

It didn’t matter that the sea was raging, it didn’t matter that he had nothing but a rickety boat that didn’t even _belong_ to him. At that moment he couldn’t care less. 

If he _could_ , he might’ve guessed what kind of a creature was calling for him and what kind of death was awaiting him.

How many times did it use its voice to lure its victims? How many ships it sunk and how many of Arthur’s people it feasted on? _This_ must be where it got its rings. 

This creature is nothing but a _monster_ , no matter how lovely their visage is. 

He grits his teeth, trying and failing to hide the blinding anger he feels. 

“It got me here,” he says sharply. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

The water sloshes as if the creature flicks its tail, but its face remains impassive. 

“I suppose,” it raises its eyebrows. “I could sing to you again, but— It might be too strong for you, given the proximity.” 

“And that bothers you… why?” 

Once again, Arthur feels more bewildered than angry. The creature’s actions, its words simply refuse to make sense. 

Why is he still alive? Why was he rescued? What does the creature _want_ from him? 

It tilts its head again as if it’s not quite sure about the answer. 

“It wouldn’t be the same,” it says cryptically. “Do you have a name?” 

Arthur blinks. 

This — _all_ of this — is the single most bizarre experience in his whole life. 

“I’m Arthur,” he says. Belatedly, he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have given his real name, though he’s pretty sure the merfolk don’t have any power over them. “Do you have one?”

“Not in the way that you do,” the creature offers another not-answer. “But you may call me Maleagant.” 

_Maleagant._

The name sounds unusual and foreign to Arthur’s ear, and yet it doesn’t alienate them further. On the contrary, it makes accepting this creature’s existence much easier. It— _he_ must’ve been named by someone, perhaps his mother, gentle and loving and eager to welcome into this world her tiny, newborn child. 

The fact that this child had a tail and gills didn’t make it any less of a person. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur says slowly, half-afraid to butcher the name. “Are you— Do you, by chance, have any intention to eat me?” 

He thinks he meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t sound like one. His fear is real and not exactly _unfounded_ , and yet Maleagant looks affronted by the mere suggestion. His tail swishes violently, his eyes narrow and an odd, low sound comes from the depth of his throat. 

It reminds Arthur of a growl but seems to resonate so much _deeper_ in him. A vague sense of unease settles in his gut, and just like that he’s once again confronted with the reality that what he’s dealing with is dangerous and inhuman. 

“Do I look,” Maleagant hisses, “like I could eat you?” 

If Arthur could afford to be entirely honest, his answer would definitely be “yes”, but he is pretty sure that Maleagant won’t appreciate it. 

His prolonged silence seems to convey his feelings all the same. 

“Should I assume then that your people would gladly carve up a siren?” Maleagant spits venomously. “No doubt you’d find it a _delicacy_.” 

The mere image makes Arthur feel sick in his stomach. The merfolk aren’t humans, that much is true, but they still look enough _like them._ They are sentient, they aren’t soulless, and killing them is one thing, but _eating_? 

And yes, he’s perfectly capable of recognizing the double standards in his own thoughts. He certainly doesn’t need to guess where Maleagant’s offense comes from. 

Sighing deeply, he rubs his face but has to stop when the sharp pain shoots through his left wrist. It doesn’t feel like it is broken, but even a sprain is extremely bad news in his situation. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and thinks that he means it. “I was out of line, it’s just… _Why_ did you summon me here?” 

Maleagant’s gaze doesn’t soften, it remains hard and unflinching, but there is something else lurking in the depths of his eyes. A conflict, maybe, uncertainty and almost _wariness_. 

He shifts, then presses his palms flat to the stone floor of the cave and pushes himself up with alarming ease, and Arthur can’t help but wonder how _strong_ he truly is or how easily he could win if they were to fight. 

_Too_ easily. 

But then, he already knew he’s at the creature’s mercy.

Maleagant’s tail lands on the stone with a heavy slap. It’s massive, powerful and long, dark as his hair is and softly glistening in the faint greenish light of the cave. It’s _gorgeous_ , if Arthur is honest with himself, and it is really terribly unfair that a creature so deadly must be this breathtaking. 

“No need to flaunt all of your assets,” he mutters under his breath. “I already think you are pretty.” 

“Do you?” Maleagant asks, and suddenly he is too close for Arthur’s comfort, their faces just a few fingers apart. He slowly blinks. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours.” 

“Like mine?”

“ _Brown_ ,” he pauses. “Do they shine like amber in the sunlight?”

Arthur feels utterly bemused. 

“I… have no idea,” he murmurs, wishing he could back away and yet unable to move. He wonders if Maleagant’s voice has the same mesmerizing power his songs possess. “Do merpeople have no brown eyes among them?” 

Maleagant keeps silent. He seems just as _enchanted_ by Arthur, perhaps drawn to the odd mixture of familiar and foreign he finds in his features. Slowly, he raises his hand, and though Arthur has plenty of time to recoil, he keeps still.

He feels a touch of cool fingers on his face as they trace the line of his beard and then the curve of his mouth. It’s intimate like a lover's caress, it’s _weird_ , but not unpleasant. 

“It’s rare,” Maleagant says as he takes his hand away. “And it’s— It’s different underwater. _Everything_ is different.” 

Arthur wonders if he imagines something forlorn in Maleagant’s voice, something akin of longing— for _what_ , he doesn’t know and cannot guess. 

Maleagant is a strange creature. He’s much stranger than merpeople are rumored to be because monsters and beasts are easy, but Maleagant, Arthur thinks, is _not_. 

Not a monster and _certainly_ not easy. 

By now, Arthur is somewhat reassured that Maleagant _won’t_ eat him, but even if it was nothing but loneliness or curiosity that made him call for a human, there is no guarantee he won’t get rid of him when this is over. 

There must be a reason why no one talks about seeing merpeople these days. 

“What do you want from me?” he asks quietly. He makes sure that no accusation slips into his voice so maybe this time Maleagant will deign to answer. 

Maleagant’s eyes, still stormy and a little uncertain, flicker to meet Arthur’s. He makes another sound at the back of his throat, not a growl this time but something _lighter_. Something that reads vaguely… ashamed? _Shy?_

Arthur’s lips twitch. 

“My song called for you,” Maleagant says. “It wasn’t exactly... deliberate.” 

It takes Arthur a moment to process the implications of this confession. 

Didn’t Maleagant admit earlier that he _wanted_ him here? But then, it doesn’t exactly contradict the fact that it wasn’t planned, just— paints it in an entirely different light. 

Arthur still doesn’t know enough about this creature and what drives him, he doesn’t know if he’s genuine or extremely good at deception, but this is certainly something he’ll have to think about carefully when he’s left alone. _If_ he’s left alone. 

He has no idea how far from the shore he is or is it possible to reach it without a boat, and then— Arthur lowers his eyes to take a closer look at his left wrist, still tender and pulsing with dull, barely noticeable ache.

He presses his fingers to the puffy swollen skin, winces as it sends a jolt of pain through his arm. Definitely a sprain, and with an injury like this, he’s not swimming _anywhere_ for at least a couple of weeks. 

Even if Maleagant would be so kind as to let him go. 

“You’re hurt,” Maleagant states. 

Arthur huffs. 

“I think my bruises have bruises,” he confesses. “And I’m pretty sure I sprained my wrist. It should heal on its own, but it’ll take some time, and for the time being… I guess I’m stuck here.” 

A tiny frown settles between Maleagant’s eyebrows. 

“You humans are awfully soft,” he says. “You wouldn’t have survived a day in the sea.” 

They _do_ survive pretty well, Arthur wants to argue, but he’s pretty sure that sailing is not what Maleagant meant. The merfolk’s world _is_ much more hostile, so it’s no wonder they are much more strong and durable than humans. 

“It’s a good thing then that we don’t live in the sea,” Arthur says. 

“And you should stay out of it,” Maleagant retorts sharply. “If you value your lives.” 

Arthur bristles. 

Was _this_ the reason behind the drownings and the shipwrecks? Did the merfolk see his people as invaders or simply _unwelcome_ in their home? 

Arthur would’ve accepted their reasoning and their right to protect their territory, if not for the fact that the ship trade is the only way for _humans_ to survive. 

“If you wanted me to stay out of your sea,” he says, not bothering to hide his irritation, “perhaps you should’ve tamed your song.” 

Maleagant recoils and his eyes flash with hurt. He growls again, though this time the sound comes out higher and far more disturbing. 

Something in Arthur _resonates_ towards this, it aches and crawls, it fills him with unease and regret and an odd desire to _apologize_. It is instinctual more than rational, because _rationally_ he knows he was right. 

Was he? 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and grits his teeth so tightly his cheekbones look even sharper. It seems like he fights something inside of him, an instinct or an urge, and Arthur sincerely hopes it’s not an urge to wring his neck.

“I can’t,” Maleagant hisses, angry and low, “ _tame_ it, as you put it. Nor should I have to! Not for the likes of you.” 

And _oh_ how Arthur wants to be angry in turn, for this derision and for everything that Maleagant did to him, but— 

He also feels like he hit a nerve and Maleagant’s rage isn’t even aimed at him. He feels like it’s an old pain, something that discomfits Maleagant greatly, that makes him restless and longing and so dissatisfied it’s obvious even for a stranger. 

He still won’t apologize, no matter how he’s _tempted_ to, but he also— 

He doesn’t think it’s wise to antagonize this creature any further. 

He watches as Maleagant moves back to the edge of the cave, surprisingly agile for a sea-dweller. The look of him is still foreign and mesmerizing, and it reminds Arthur that not so long ago he would’ve thought him impossible.

A part of him still doesn’t quite believe this new reality. 

“I have to get you some food and freshwater,” Maleagant says, dipping his tail into the sea. He doesn’t sound angry anymore, but the detachment in his voice is clearly deliberate and entirely fake. “Don’t try to leave on your own. You won’t survive it.”

It’s not a threat, just the constatation of fact that Arthur has already admitted, and he wastes no energy to react to that. The soreness in his whole body leaves him with bone-deep exhaustion, the sort that won’t go away after a few hours he spent unconscious. 

Maleagant doesn’t want him dead. He saved him, he intends to _feed_ him, and for now— 

For now, Arthur thinks he can put his worries away. 

At least for a little while. 

When the loud splash signals Maleagant leaving, Arthur stretches on his back and lifts his gaze towards the softly glowing ceiling. It’s pretty and oddly soothing, and his head is blissfully empty of the things that _will_ worry him in time, but do not yet.

Soon enough, he feels himself drifting to sleep. 

He prays to all the gods his people worship that in the morning things will become a little more clear.


	3. see if I can stand it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are getting... fluffy

The next three days of Arthur’s not-quite-captivity Maleagant spends, for the lack of a better word, sulking. Which is extremely _unfortunate_ , since his moods apparently possess a unique ability to be contagious. 

Arthur remembers the very first time when he woke up abruptly in the middle of the night, tears streaming down his face and his heart squeezing in an agonizing, unnamed emotion. 

He heard a _song_ amidst the rustling of the wind and waves’ sloshing, a sound bewitching and unearthly. It barely resembled _music_ , but any other name would seem even less fitting. 

It beat with Arthur’s heart, it filled it to the brim with too strong emotions until they overflowed with salty water running down his cheeks.

There was a deep sadness in that song, heartache and longing, and Arthur was so _close_ to bolting from his makeshift bed and rushing to do something, _anything_ to soothe this terrible hurting of another’s soul. 

He stopped himself by sheer force of will. He lay still, unwilling to give Malegant even a hint that he’s awake, he _ignored_ the call that felt so different from the one that brought him here but in its core remained the same. 

In time, its magic seemed to fade. It still resonated somewhere deep in Arthur’s heart, but it no longer robbed him of the clarity of his mind. It felt like _empathy_ , impossibly heightened and sharp, and seeing someone so obviously miserable and doing nothing has never been Arthur’s strong suit, but—

That was exactly what he did. 

He shut his eyes and clutched the cloak that served him as a blanket, he tried to fall asleep again, his face still wet from tears, his mind restless and his heart guilty.

Since then, it has been happening every night. At times, Maleagant’s songs were forlorn and mournful, at others, they filled Arthur’s soul with a peculiar mix of dissatisfaction and irritation that for the most part felt like _his own._

It didn’t take him long to realize just _why_ his unwitting suggestion to tame the siren’s song offended Maleagant this much. It must be something he’s simply _incapable_ of doing, no more than Arthur is capable of stifling irritation, vague pity or faint curiosity he feels towards his captor. 

While he did entertain the possibility of Maleagant deliberately trying to influence his emotions, he couldn’t make himself believe it. It seemed too obvious that Maleagant had no desire to showcase his feelings. He always took a visible effort to contain his songs in the daytime, and while he slipped from time to time, for the most part, he kept himself perfectly collected and reserved.

He was closed-off and mildly irritable, and though he took proper care of Arthur, it left him with a vague feeling that he’s being treated like a _pet_. 

Some fifteen years ago, when Arthur was a child, he convinced his mother to let him take one of the kitchen cat’s kittens to his chambers and then sulked for days when this tiny independent creature hissed at him and bit his fingers and refused to sleep on his pillow. 

The comparison may be somewhat amusing, but Arthur can’t help but wonder what fate awaits him if he won’t stop being so annoyingly uncooperative. Much as he wants to believe it, he doubts that he’ll simply be returned to where he was taken from. 

With a quiet sigh, Arthur rolls onto his back. He’s been trying and failing to fall asleep for _hours_ , this time not because of Maleagant’s singing, but thanks to a mild hunger and a particularly unbearable itch of his salted-through skin. 

So far, his life in the cave hasn’t been particularly awful, but neither could it be called comfortable. The food Maleagant brings him, for the most part, consists of raw fish, some seaweed and roe, and while it’s nothing Arthur didn’t have before, he already misses some basic _variety_. The freshwater is sparse. It’s enough to keep him hydrated, but his clothes were starting to get musty, and his attempt to wash them in the sea only made them coarse and thoroughly unpleasant to wear. 

That one time he tried to bring the issue to Maleagant, he just blinked at him and asked why he bothers with the clothes _at all._ Which— 

Arthur decided he had no energy to try and explain it. 

He sighs again. 

The glowing fungus on the ceiling is familiar to him in every tiny detail. He feels restless and vaguely miserable, _bored_ out of his mind, and his constant musings about the fate that awaits him do nothing to help it. 

Arthur turns his head to look at Maleagant who’s sitting on the edge of the cave, his figure sharply accentuated by the light of the full moon. His song is quiet tonight, gentle and lilting. It speaks of _loneliness_ that’s all too easy to decipher. 

Or maybe Arthur is simply getting better at this. 

He isn’t a kitten. He doesn’t need to be domesticated and tamed, he can choose to be a little more cooperative and a little less hostile, because gods know Maleagant won’t make the first step. He’ll continue being miserable and difficult, he’ll grow to resent his pet, and then— 

Arthur doesn’t wish to find out what _then_. 

With yet another forlorn sigh, he takes his cloak and gets off his bed, then quietly moves towards the edge of the cave. 

Maleagant visibly startles when he hears the sound of his steps. The song dies in his throat, his eyes are wide and wary and his whole expression is unfamiliarly _open_. 

Arthur feels a little ashamed for intruding on what must’ve been a private moment, and yet he doesn’t back off.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, keeping his voice soft. 

Maleagant blinks at him. He clears his throat and then a corner of his mouth jerks upwards in a semblance of a smile. 

“In singing?”

Arthur huffs a laugh. 

“No,” he shakes his head. Without waiting for a proper invitation, he lowers himself on the stone next to Maleagant and dips his feet into cool seawater. “No, I don’t think you’d like to hear that. While I’m not the worst singer in Britain, it— It simply can’t compare.” 

What humans call singing isn’t remotely the same as the siren’s songs. There is no magic woven tightly in each and every sound, there is no purity, no otherworldly beauty words fail to describe. 

Whatever he might try will only sound like a crude, insulting imitation. 

“There is no need to compare,” Maleagant turns his gaze towards the sea and his tail keeps slowly swishing through the waves. “They are _different_ , but being different isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” He pauses, his lips curve into something wry and self-deprecating. “At least I hope it isn’t.” 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to this. 

He knows this isn’t about singing, not anymore, but whether Maleagant speaks of the difference between the two of them or something else entirely, he cannot guess. 

He cannot _ask_ , for it certainly won’t be taken well. 

“No, I don’t think it is a bad thing,” he says. 

Maleagant doesn’t answer. 

For a while, they sit in silence that for the first time feels truly comfortable. This isn’t much of a progress, half a step at best, but Arthur sees no point in complaining. The night is beautiful, the sky is peppered with the myriad stars, and in the soft light of the moon, his strange companion looks like a character from a fairytale. 

Perhaps one of those that Arthur’s mother used to tell him when he was no longer a child but not yet an adult, of forest spirits dying in the big cities or of a selkie woman trapped by a greedy, selfish man who thought he could own another living creature.

Arthur wonders if his mother believed these tales might be real. He wonders what she’d think of Maleagant, if she’d be able to understand his struggles better. 

From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Maleagant shivering. The wind has risen, and though the night is still warm, it _is_ getting a little chilly. 

“Are you cold?” Arthur asks with entirely feigned nonchalance. 

Maleagant’s eyes flicker towards him. He looks surprised, a little cautious and wary. His hair is still wet, curling softly just above his shoulders, inky black in the monochrome of the night. The water droplets glint on his shoulders and chest, and Arthur catches himself trailing the path of one of them that slides down the smooth skin and disappears somewhere amongst the scales. 

He wets his lips and wills himself to raise his eyes. 

“I am,” Maleagant answers slowly. “I’m not used to being out of the sea for so long.”

At Arthur’s questioning gaze, he clarifies: 

“I don’t feel cold when I am underwater,” he says. “When I breathe through my gills, water brings my temperature down, but _here_ my body works differently. More like _yours_. But I suspect you don’t really want a lesson in the merfolk’s anatomy.” 

In truth, Arthur sort of does. Perhaps not right now when his mind is sluggish and murky, but he _does_ wish to know more about the sirens. They may look like something out of a fairytale, but they are real, they aren’t _impossible_. 

It’s just a little difficult to accept it. 

“Maybe some other time,” he says. After a moment of hesitation, he unfolds the cloak that lies on his lap and offers it to Maleagant. “May I?” 

For a moment, Maleagant looks confused, but then simply lowers his head. He allows Arthur to wrap around his shoulders the woolen fabric of the cloak, coarse from the salt but thick enough to ward off the chill. 

It feels oddly _intimate_ when there are only two of them in this cave amidst the sea. 

Gently, Arthur untangles the lock of Maleagant’s hair caught in the clasp, his fingers lightly brushing the cold, damp skin of his neck. 

He feels Maleagant shiver. 

For a heartbeat, Arthur can’t make himself move away and break this not-embrace, but then— 

He _feels_ the song before he hears it, a complex melody that goes _through_ him, fills his veins with saltwater, confusion and yearning, and dozens of other things he has no hope to untangle. 

Arthur doesn’t mean to recoil but he does, _startled_ much more than discomfited. 

Maleagant’s throat jerks as he swallows, pushing his song down and stifling it before it can break free. He furrows his brows, presses his lips into a thin line and wraps himself tighter in the cloak. 

“You really can’t tame it, can you?” Arthur asks gently. “Your song?”

“Not really, no,” Maleagant’s voice sounds even, but there is something _restless_ in him and his eyes refuse to meet Arthur’s. “I can _try_ , but it doesn’t always work. It’s difficult to keep it contained, it’s overwhelming, it’s— too much.” 

Arthur hums. 

He can’t say he understands it fully, but he suspects it’s not that different from trying to hold your strongest emotions at bay. You need to smile when you’re happy and cry when you’re sad, you need to let your anger out when it tries to consume you. 

Arthur has never been good at controlling these things, so how can he expect Maleagant to be any better? 

“I told you before,” Maleagant says, “it wasn’t exactly my _choice_ to bring you here.” 

Given what he knows now, Arthur has no trouble believing these words, but that still doesn’t mean that Maleagant didn’t _want_ him here. Not all of his songs call for him, and only that first one possessed such overwhelming strength that made him forget caution and reason and _himself_. 

It must’ve been an immensely powerful emotion, his loneliness or longing or something else no human is capable of comprehending. It didn’t simply awake Arthur’s empathy, it bent his will with alarming ease. 

It should feel scarier than it does. 

“I don’t have any intention to hold you captive,” Maleagant says after a moment of silence. Once again, his eyes flicker towards Arthur as if he tries to gauge his reaction. “We aren’t terribly far from the shore. Once your wrist is healed, you should be able to make it. Four hours at most.” 

Arthur tries not to show how utterly _relieved_ he feels. 

He refused to think what he would do if Maleagant refused to let him go, whether he’d try to fight or flee when the opportunity presented itself, but he’s genuinely happy they can avoid hostility between them. 

For too many complicated reasons he doesn’t care to untangle right now. 

“Four hours,” he repeats. “For me or for you?” 

Maleagant’s lips quirk into a slightly mocking smile. 

“For you,” he assures. “I would need half an hour, but I—” The shadow passes over his face. “I’m already too close to the shore. I can’t risk it.” 

Arthur turns away, for some inexplicable reason unable to look into Maleagant’s eyes. 

He stares on his wrist, still swollen and tender, but no longer constantly aching. It is the only real injury he suffered because of Maleagant, he wasn’t drowned or dragged to the bottom of the sea, but— 

Is Maleagant an exception amongst his kind? 

Is _Arthur_?

“Do you really think you’ll be in danger?” he asks. “Because of my people?” 

“Yes.” Maleagant doesn’t even take a moment to think about his answer. “Yes, I will be. I can’t defend myself with my song, it works differently, and while I’m physically stronger than your kind, your weapons, your _nets_ will overpower me with ease.” 

Arthur swallows heavily. He wishes he could deny that his people would readily hunt a sentient being, but he’s lived his whole life in a coastal city and heard sailors bragging about their finest catches, the rarer the better, he— 

He’s seen enough cruelty in humans to truly believe Maleagant would be safe. 

“You think that we’re monsters—” 

“We _don’t_ ,” Arthur interrupts. “We don’t think about you at all, a lot of people don’t even believe you exist, but— You’re not wrong. There are those who would hunt you, given the chance.” 

Maleagant casts a look at him, heavy and calculating, but a moment later it seems to smooth into something more forgiving. 

“There are those amongst my own kind who would lure your ships onto the rocks, drown your sailors and scavenge your goods. There aren't many, but— enough.” 

_Enough_. 

“I wonder,” Arthur muses, “if it is possible to have peace between our people. We aren’t— We aren’t that different, are we?” 

They seem to have pretty much the same set of morals and no real trouble communicating. They may express their feelings and emotions differently, but that shouldn’t be a cause for hostility. 

Maleagant hugs himself, tightly clutching on the cloak. His gaze is distant and thoughtful, almost _wistful_ , but it could be a trick of the light.

“We had peace once,” he says. “Not terribly long ago. It’s not impossible, but— Even when your king dies, who can guarantee the next one will be any better? Less selfish, less bloodthirsty, less obsessed with his own privilege?” 

Arthur huffs a mirthless laugh. 

“I suppose _I_ can,” he murmurs. “Much as I can answer for myself. I can— _try_.” 

A part of him knows that he shouldn’t have said that. It’s _reckless_ to trust Maleagant with the truth of who he _is_ , not simply a fisherman or a sailor, but a crown prince to the kingdom the merfolk seem to detest, but—

It’s hard for Arthur to lie to Maleagant, to _anyone_. 

He’s always worn his heart on a sleeve. 

“King Uther,” he adds at Maleagant’s incredulous, disbelieving look, “is my father. We aren’t close, and I personally disagree with plenty of things he does, but the truth is that I will one day inherit his throne. I— is this so hard to believe that? You think I am unsuited for this role?”

He knows that he’s not ready for the crown. He’s immature and soft and too often forgets the reason, allowing his feeling to rule him, but he thinks— he _hopes_ that his heart is in the right place. Isn’t that what’s truly important? 

Maleagant shakes his head. 

“I don’t think I have any right to judge you,” he lifts the corner of his mouth, “especially considering that not a lot of my people are eager to see _me_ as their ruler.” 

_Oh_. 

Arthur would laugh if he didn’t think it’d be terribly inappropriate. 

What were the chances that fate would bring together the princes of two different realms? If peace between them is even possible, one day they will be capable of bringing it back. 

Arthur doesn’t think it will be easy. His people may not yet be ready to accept another race’s existence and treat them as equals. The merfolk may be unwilling to make amends and share their power over the sea. 

He doesn’t even know if he can trust Maleagant’s word and it’s certainly not the right time to make any decisions, but it’s _something_. 

It’s _comforting_ that he can treat this as a diplomatic mission of sorts. A noble course and a good excuse to let actually himself enjoy Maleagant’s company. 

Gingerly rubbing his eyes, Arthur stifles a yawn. Pleasant as said company is — and he’s surprised to find he does mean it — it’s been a long day, and exhaustion seems to be finally catching up on him. 

He’s still not sure he’ll manage to fall asleep, but at the very least he feels ready to try. 

“I—” he yawns again. “Do you mind if we continue this talk tomorrow? I think there are things that need to be said, but I don’t really wish to fall asleep on you.” 

He quirks his lips into a quick, placating smile and is pleased to see Maleagant answering with a ghost of his own. 

“No, I don’t mind,” Maleagant says smoothly. “I need to get some rest as well. I haven’t had any chance to sleep these past few days, and—” 

Arthur blinks at him, honestly surprised. He assumed that Maleagant _did_ sleep at night, perhaps right after his song no longer begged to be set free, and it’s not like he looked particularly exhausted. Tired, irritable for sure, but not like a person who didn’t sleep for _three days straight._

“Why?” he asks. “I can hardly imagine staying awake for so long—” 

“I don’t _need_ to sleep as much as you humans do,” Maleagant interrupts a little too harshly. “Though at this point I really have to. I— told you this before. It’s too close to the shore. I don’t feel comfortable sleeping anywhere in these waters.” 

For a couple of moments, Arthur tries and fails to imagine how sirens sleep. Perhaps they simply let themselves drift across the bottom of the sea, wherever the currents might take them. 

It doesn’t seem to be particularly comfortable or safe. 

“You could maybe try to sleep here, in the cave?” he offers. “I mean… could you?” 

While Maleagant never showed any discomfort being out of the sea, he also never stayed in the cave for long, so maybe Arthur’s offer is useless at best and offensive at worst. 

Maleagant furrows his brows. 

“Possibly,” he says slowly. “I don’t really— how do you imagine?” 

He swishes his tail as if to remind Arthur of its existence and that he isn’t exactly a _land_ creature. He certainly won’t be comfortable even on the largest of humans’ beds, but it’s not like they have one of those here, besides—

“I have an idea,” Arthur gets on his feet and moves towards the pile of dried seaweed that serves him as a mattress. 

What he’s thinking about is bold and extremely foolish, but he also can’t _not_ offer it. 

“Come here,” he calls. 

With barely concealed skepticism, Maleagant watches as Arthur lies down onto his makeshift bed. It’s not like he particularly _wants_ to share it, he just can’t imagine Maleagant settling on the stone floor. He has to _curl_ around something, and the choice of that something in the cave is—

Well, nonexistent.

After a moment of hesitation, Maleagant takes off the cloak and shifts towards the bed. He’s slow and careful in his movements, _graceful_ despite the inevitable awkwardness of his crawling. 

He places the cloak next to Arthur, then stills, seemingly unsure about what to do next. 

“Just,” Arthur bites his lower lip, “put your head on my chest, it should be fairly comfortable this way.” 

He _is_ inviting a siren to cuddle, and the thought of it is so absurd he almost wants to laugh, yet there is no real mirth in his heart. Just weird, tense anticipation. 

Maleagant presses his lips into a tight line but complies without a protest. He aligns his body with Arthur’s, presses the cold scales of his tail against his thigh. 

Carefully, Arthur helps them both settle into something a little less awkward. 

“I suppose this will do,” Maleagant murmurs. 

His palm lies flat on Arthur’s chest, right above his heart that surely beats too fast.

This intimacy between them isn’t something Arthur expected, he just rushed into things without thinking much as he always does. 

This intimacy between them isn’t something _familiar_ , because not once he shared his bed for sleeping. He is a prince. He isn’t meant to have partners, just lovers for a night, and— That’s certainly not the direction his thoughts should be taking.

Arthur quietly sighs. 

“You said I didn’t want to hear it,” Maleagant says quietly, his restless fingers tracing the hair on Arthur’s chest as if he’s mildly fascinated by them, “your singing. But I think I _do_. Don’t your mothers sing their children to sleep?”

Arthur chuckles. 

The absurdity of this whole situation is amusing, off-putting, _weird_ , and yet he doesn’t truly mind it. He wonders if Maleagant even _heard_ human singing before, if he knows what he’s getting into, but— 

Well, it probably won’t hurt to try. 

He’s really not the worst singer, quite good if the court ladies are to be believed — though they really shouldn’t be — and a part of him _wants_ to share this with Maleagant. 

He closes his eyes, trying to remember the words of the lullaby his mother used to sing to him, a simple, calming melody that reminds him of simpler, kinder times. 

Putting his palm onto the back of Maleagant’s head, he takes a deep breath and lets out the first sound, soft and murmuring and soothing in the silence of the cave. 

It isn’t perfect, not by far, but Maleagant voices no complaints, and Arthur grows a little bolder, more sure of himself, and then— 

A quiet, melodic humming joins him, entwines with his melody and _rights_ it.

There is nothing but pleased contentment in this song, no trace of sadness or pain, it’s _lulling_ in a way a human lullaby can’t be.

It feels too easy to fall asleep to it. 

Before the night claims him, Arthur thinks that while Maleagant didn’t exactly get him to sleep on his pillow, the reality isn’t far off. 

He finds that he doesn’t mind it at all.


	4. taking over me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been A WHILE and yet this chapter is barely edited  
> 

Under the sun, Maleagant’s obsidian-black tail glints with molten gold. Sometimes Arthur thinks he could watch for hours the way the light plays on his scales, otherworldly and mesmerizing just as his songs are. 

His _songs_ are a familiar presence these days. They feel so natural, no less so than his quick and fleeting smiles, the indignant arch of his eyebrows, or even the disdainful curve of his mouth. Maleagant is expressive, he’s easy to read, but it’s his _songs_ that betray his most intimate truths. 

In a week they’ve spent together Arthur got to know the tiniest nuances of them, he learned to recognize emotions interwoven in the sound of Maleagant’s voice. The melody grew forlorn and unbearably sad when he was feeling blue, his happiness was a low, content humming at the edge of hearing range, his curiosity an unmistakable lilt. No matter what feeling filled his songs, they always stirred _something_ in Arthur’s heart, they resonated with him, they sharpened his empathy and made him _feel the same._

He had no trouble distinguishing his own emotions from the ones the sirens’ magic brought, but ignoring them was beyond him. 

Ignoring them wasn’t something he _wanted_ to do, at least not after the first night they spent together. 

Rolling onto his stomach, Arthur dips his fingers into the sea. The water is pleasantly cool, bright turquoise that looks almost unnatural, and for a moment he watches, transfixed, as it distorts the silhouette of his hand. 

The splash of water makes him raise his head to catch Maleagant swimming closer to the cave entrance. He seems to be watching Arthur in turn, calm and faintly amused by his idle fascination. 

The silence between them feels natural. The silence between them isn’t silence at all, it’s filled with _song_ , peaceful and calm. 

Slowly, Arthur reaches out to touch Maleagant’s hair. His curls are wet and coarse from salt, and sometimes Arthur catches himself wondering how much softer they would feel washed with fresh water and fragrant herbs. He _loves_ them the way they are, it’s just— 

Dreaming of Maleagant in his world never fails to make him a little bit wistful. 

The song doesn’t die out with the touch, it quiets a little, but it’s still full of soothing warmth, of— _happiness._

Arthur feels happy too. Even when true silence settles, even when the sirens’ magic no longer beats within his heart, he still _wants_ to be here. He wants their story to last just a little longer, maybe— 

Maybe forever. 

He never realized how _lonely_ he was, how much he longed for someone he’d wish to spend all of his time with, someone who’d truly need his affection. 

His mother used to say that being a royal is never easy. The privilege bestowed on them keeps people at distance, the weight of responsibility is hard to shoulder, and one would be so lucky to find true love in marriage, a spouse who’d be an anchor, a shoulder to lean on, a _partner_ first and foremost. 

Arthur knows his parents never had _anything_ like that. His mother doesn’t love his father, she doesn’t even respect him, and Arthur can’t fault her for that. High-King Uther is a hard man, he’s powerful and willful, self-centered and dismissive even towards those he holds closest. Perhaps _he_ is fine without love, but— 

Arthur is his _mother’s_ son. He spent his youth in carefree wandering, content with brief and meaningless encounters, but as the years passed it no longer brought him the same joy. It _hurt_ every time when yet another lover gathered their clothes to leave, when he saw reverence in their eyes instead of true affection, when the gap between them seemed impossible to close. 

It’s different with Maleagant. 

They are from different realms, they are of different _species_ , but here, amidst the sea, they are _equals_. And it has nothing to do with the fact that both of them will one day inherit the crown of their peoples. 

“Something on your mind?” Maleagant asks, his voice soft and the smile on his lips indulgently gentle. 

Arthur smiles too. He pushes the lock of wet hair behind Maleagant’s ear, traces with his fingertips the straight line of his eyebrow, catching the stray droplets of water. 

Maleagant’s beauty no longer seems otherworldly, but looking at him is still immensely _pleasing_. It still fills Arthur’s heart with an emotion he’s not ready to decipher. 

“Nothing in particular,” he says. “But I was just thinking… I was thinking how much I enjoy being here. With you.”

The words seem to catch Maleagant by surprise. For the briefest of moments his expression seems open and almost _vulnerable_ , but he’s quick to hide his perceived weakness. Arthur wishes to tell him that there is no weakness in showing emotion, that he understands the need to be loved, that he, too, shares his loneliness, if maybe doesn’t suffer it this deeply. 

They aren’t lovers. They aren’t _anything_ at this point, not even friends, but at the same time something stretches between them, a rope of connection, thick and tight, woven from all small things they’ve shared. 

He’s not sure how it started. From the first embrace he offered, or maybe later— _Later_ , when Maleagant grew bolder, when with cat-like curiosity he pestered Arthur with demands to know _everything_ about human traditions, how they expressed emotions and affections when the song couldn’t do that for them. 

There was no refusing him. Not when the song was _calling_ for Arthur, alluring and irresistible, a quiet, vulnerable plea for _love._

Arthur told Maleagant everything he asked for, he showed him caresses and embraces, he stroked his hair and rocked him to sleep, he held him close to share the warmth, he even allowed himself brief and chaste kisses— 

He gave him everything he wished to give a _partner,_ but he never crossed that final line that would give definition to what they became. 

_What_ did they become? What _are_ they? 

The ceaseless, persistent wondering refuses to be silenced, it makes Arthur— 

Guessing, yearning, _waiting_ for the next inevitable step.

Maleagant catches Arthur’s wrist and softly presses his lips to his palm. It is a caress he never knew before, but he adopted it so easily it’s awfully tempting to read in it something that may not be there. 

“Do you miss home?” Maleagant asks. 

He sounds genuinely curious, but something in him seems _troubled_ , and Arthur wishes he could chase this emotion away before it taints the song that sounds so sweet. 

His slides his thumb along the perfectly sharp line of Maleagant’s mouth then traces the small forked scar under his lower lip. The skin under his touch is hairless and smooth, a little tougher than his own. Enough to remind him they aren’t the same. 

Arthur allows himself a small smile.

“Not really,” he says. 

Not _yet_. It’s been a little over a week, most of the campaigns he joined lasted a lot longer, and maybe he wasn’t quite isolated from other people during these times, it’s not like he’s completely alone _now_. 

In a way, being here is liberating. It gives him a rare chance to set aside the burdens of being a crown prince, his worries about marriage prospects or politics or yet another clash with the barbarians. It won’t — _can’t_ — last, but right now he has no choice but to stay where he is, and he might as well enjoy it. 

“Though, to be fair, I’m starting to miss the food,” Arthur adds. “Apples and grapes and, oh, definitely wine. I’d give _a lot_ to have some wine now.” 

It’s so easy to imagine them lounging on the shore, sharing a bottle of wine between them, the skies above endless and peppered with stars, the wind fresh and smelling like freedom. 

This is _happiness_ the way he always imagined it. 

“It’d be quite an experience to taste it,” Maleagant muses aloud. “I wonder if it’d have any effect on me.” 

Arthur feels the corners of his mouth twitch as he tries to contain his laughter. The thought of drunk Maleagant is entirely too amusing, and it doesn’t really matter whether he’d be moodier than usual or more affectionate, whether his tongue would get looser or his eyes brighter. 

Maybe his head would spin like Arthur’s does every time he hears the sirens’ song, much more heady and sweet than any wine could be. 

“I miss my mother a little,” Arthur says, just to distract himself from these thoughts. “My friends… well, not too much.” 

Much as he cherishes his friends, he doesn’t _need_ their constant presence. The loneliness he sometimes feels is of a different nature, it makes him long for something else, perhaps— 

“Perhaps a lover?” Maleagant asks. His voice is tense, if just a little, his gaze seems dark and intense, and it’s enough to make Arthur’s stupid heart beat faster. 

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “No lover.” 

He _wanted_ to have someone in his life, but that was more of a pretty fantasy that didn’t quite agree with his reality. From time to time, a dame or a knight would catch his fancy, but when nothing came out of this, Arthur felt— 

Sad, but in a way that had nothing to do with _them_. 

He mourned a dream he failed to reach once more. 

“No one?” Maleagant cocks his head to the side, and _this_ time he sounds teasing. “No fiancee either?”

“No,” Arthur laughs. “Thank Gods for that. Why do you ask? Do _you_ have someone waiting for you?” 

He regrets asking this question almost immediately. Maleagant’s face darkens, a tiny frown appears between his eyebrows, and that’s not a big shift in the mood, not really, but Arthur is attuned to him enough to notice. He cares about him enough to _worry_ , to wonder if maybe Maleagant _is_ bound to someone, and what they have is meaningless and fleeting… 

But how can it be anything _other_ than that? 

“No,” Maleagant answers sharply. “It may surprise you, but I’m not exactly _sought-after_ amongst my kind.”

The bitterness colors his words, dissatisfaction and hurt seep through, and it’s not the first time Arthur notices these emotions. They are abundant in Maleagant’s songs, especially those he tries to silence, and perhaps— 

Perhaps his life underwater is far from happy, perhaps he’s shunned by his people, but _why_ would that be? 

For Arthur, he’s the most enchanting, captivating, _perfect_ creature he’s ever met. 

All of his idiosyncrasies and dramatics included. 

“Their loss then,” Arthur murmurs. 

He’s immensely pleased when Maleagant’s eyes lighten. This is what he expected, after all. What he _didn’t_ is to be abruptly dragged of the cave floor and right into the bone-chillingly cold water. 

Arthur splutters, indignant and flailing, clutching at Meleagant’s shoulders in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. He didn’t even _notice_ when he got a grip on him or how he managed to move him so easily. It definitely shouldn’t be half this arousing.

Arthur coughs a couple of times. His nose and throat burn from the salty water, which is a thoroughly unpleasant sensation, but Maleagant is holding him tightly, his arm is wrapped around his middle, and that alone might be _worth it._

Resting his chin on Maleagant’s shoulder, Arthur chuckles lightly, still struggling to remember how to properly breathe. 

“You,” he rasps, “you _do_ want my death, don’t you? You almost managed to convince me that the sirens don’t actually lust for human blood…” 

He still clings to Maleagant, their bodies are flush against each other. He knows that he’s in no real danger, he _trusts_ Maleagant, and he can only hope that his teasing won’t be taken as an offense. 

“Your _blood_ is ultimately useless for us,” Maleagant says, but there is no hard edge to his voice. “I simply thought you should spend some time in _my_ world. For a change.” 

His world. 

His world is the sea, vast and deep. 

His world is the place where everything feels lighter and a little muted, where saltwater soaks into the skin and lingers at the route of the tongue, where touching each other is much easier but less personal too. 

Arthur doesn’t belong to Maleagant’s world. He won’t be able to see his true home, just like Maleagant won’t be able to share with the joys of living in Camelot. 

They can only meet somewhere in the middle, in a place like this cave— 

Can this be enough? 

Can they have a future together, or is Arthur naive to wish this will last? 

He tries to silence these thoughts. They will get him nowhere and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. 

He startles as he feels Maleagant’s fingers encircling his wrist underwater, his grip isn’t tight, but it seems almost— possessive. 

“A touch,” Maleagant says, “feels _different_ here. It’s _less_ , it’s almost _nothing_ , and this is why our kind doesn’t rely on it. We don’t use it, not really, not like _your_ people do. But your people don’t have songs to convey how they feel.” 

Arthur swallows and nods. 

It makes sense to him that the sirens’ culture is different, they may not cherish the same things humans do, but— 

But why does it seem that what they do isn’t _enough_ for Maleagant? 

“A touch,” Maleagant repeats. He finally lets go of Arthur and swims a few feet away, putting some distance between them. “It can be used to show affection. It can affirm the bonds of friendship. It can soothe or excite…”

The song doesn’t color Maleagant’s voice, not this time, but there is still something melodic in it. His words sound almost— _poetic_. 

Perhaps that’s how it truly feels for an outsider. _Beautiful_ instead of mundane. 

“Can it show love?” he asks. “ _How_ do you show love?” 

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. His heart beats faster. 

Is he reading this right? Or is this nothing but a wishful fantasy that paints whatever they have in the colors that simply aren’t meant for that? 

He feels like he carried this _spark_ inside of him from the very first moment his eyes landed on Maleagant. Then, he didn’t yet know who he was or how different they were. He was simply drawn to Maleagant’s foreign, otherworldly beauty, but— 

There was more to it. It wasn’t just the line of Maleagant’s mouth that seemed so enticing, it was the way it curved into small and oddly shy smiles. It wasn’t just the unusually clear color of his eyes, but how it _changed_ answering to the shift in his emotions. 

It was him, _all_ of him, and it’s foolish to deny that Arthur is attracted to him, enchanted by him and not by the siren’s magic. The _song_ he can fight, but this— 

This he simply doesn’t _want_ to fight. 

If only he knew if these feelings are truly _mutual_. His hopes for that grew stronger every time Maleagant returned the caresses he learned, every time the melody of his songs was tinted with happiness and affection. 

Arthur’s lips pull into a wry smile. 

He never could’ve imagined that one day he’d be guessing if the _siren_ might care for him even half as much as _he_ does care for them. 

“There are different kinds of love,” he says. The sea is calm today and he has no trouble staying afloat, but it still feels like he’s _drifting,_ swaying in the storm. “Just as there are different kinds of affection. If I were—” 

He swallows heavily, unable to tear his eyes away from Maleagant. 

“If I were to take a lover to my bed, I would kiss them on the lips, I would know the taste of their mouth and their skin, I would— pleasure them with my hands and with my tongue. I would make them—” 

_Come_ , shuddering with pleasure, back arched and cheeks bright, fingers clutching on the sheets, sated and content and happy. 

He _refused_ to think about Maleagant in such a manner, refused to wonder if he would even care about any of those things or if his kind even knows desire in a way humans do. Do they enjoy coupling or do they use it for nothing but procreation? Do they mate for love? 

Gods, but when the thought entered his head he can’t truly let it go, can’t stop imagining what Maleagant’s skin would taste like, whether Arthur’s more intimate caresses would please him, how it would feel to presses his lips to the hollow of Maleagant’s throat, to trail kisses down his chest, to dip his tongue into his belly button, to— 

There isn’t even a shadow of desire in Maleagant’s eyes, they are just as clear as the sea is, they are _curious,_ but— not interested. Not really. 

Arthur tries and fails not to feel dejected. 

Maleagant swims closer to him, and the expression in his eyes changes as if he somehow senses Arthur’s inexplicable disappointment. They seem wary, vaguely discomfited, and— 

It _can’t_ be shame Arthur sees, can it? 

“Those kisses on the lips,” Maleagant murmurs as his gaze pauses on Arthur’s mouth. “Are they shared between lovers only?” 

Arthur nods. 

It’s not necessarily true, there are exceptions, but he doesn’t think it’s the right time to mention them. Maleagant isn’t asking about _them_ , he— 

_What_ kind of answer he seeks? 

“Will you kiss me then? On the lips?” 

Arthur lets out a nervous chuckle. He feels— relieved and elated, a little doubtful and still second-guessing. He feels _too much_ , and if he were a siren there would be no hope to hide his song. 

Could it be that he _wasn’t_ wrong? 

Could it be that Maleagant _does_ feel a sort of attraction towards him, even if it might differ from Arthur’s own feelings? 

He’s always been fascinated by the idea of an ideal romance, the way it was portrayed in books. He wished he could meet a person and be immediately attracted to them, he wished he could grow to care about them in a matter of days and have his feelings returned in full, he wished their bond would last _forever._

His reality was different. His stronger affections often remained one-sided, the bonds that lasted weren’t romantic in nature, they were carefully _nurtured_ too, and— 

His father used to say that when he’s married he’ll learn to love his wife and she will learn to love him in turn, but that wasn’t how his parents’ story went. 

Perhaps this isn’t how the story — any story — _should_ go. 

And still, Arthur hesitates. It pains him to see how with each passing moment of silence Maleagant looks less and less sure of himself, how _hurt_ he seems by what must feel like rejection. Arthur doesn’t _want_ to reject him, but— 

He can’t silence the lingering doubt that what they want from each other is different in a way that _can’t_ be ignored. Maleagant doesn’t know what he’s getting into, he doesn’t even know what he’s _asking_ for… 

But then, he’s not a _child_. He’s not naive, he’s highly intelligent and shrewd, he’s more than capable of reading the situation correctly. Their culture might be different, the meaning and significance of different gestures might not be the same, but isn’t it insulting to assume that Maleagant isn’t fully aware of what he’s doing? 

“I could,” Arthur says slowly. “I _would_. If that’s what you— How do _your_ people show love? Is there a special song for that?” 

He tries to make it sound lightheaded, but the corners of his mouth are trembling from the nervous tension that coils in his stomach. He can’t remember being this nervous even the first time he took a girl to his bed or the first time he confessed his affection to the person who caught his fancy.

“There is _,”_ Maleagant says. He circles Arthur, one time and then another, his restless energy almost catching. “There _is_ a song. It’s so much stronger than anything you’ve ever heard, bar perhaps the one that called you here. It would fill your heart and rush through your veins, it would long to be answered, _accepted_. It’s not something you can hold inside of you, it will always find its way out. It’s something— It’s something you can’t fake.” 

Arthur’s heart _aches_. It aches with the longing to hear it sung for _him_ , this ultimate and most sincere confession. 

It aches because he knows he won’t be able to _answer_ it. His and Maleagant’s songs won’t ever entwine and become one, no matter how much stronger and truer his feelings will grow. Sometimes, Maleagant asks him to sing, he even seems to be genuinely entertained by the human songs, listening to them with a fond, slightly indulgent smile, but he can’t _feel_ them like he should. Like he deserves. 

Arthur never thought he’d wish to become something he’s not. 

“A kiss sounds so meaningless in comparison,” he says, folding his lips into a smile. 

He feels Maleagant’s tail brushing his leg underwater, startling, but far from unpleasant. 

“Is it meaningless? To you?” 

Maleagant’s eyes are intense, impatient and searching, they are _beautiful_ just like he is, just like his _mouth_ is, soft and inviting in a way that’s impossible to deny. 

“No,” Arthur says. “It isn’t.” 

He catches Maleagant’s hand to pull him closer, runs his fingers up his bare shoulder, then gently brushes his hair aside. Carefully, he skims the edges of Maleagant’s gills, mesmerized by the barely-there fluttering of the thin, translucent skin. 

Maleagant’s breath hitches. 

Arthur uses this very moment to lean closer to him, to finally press their mouths together. The first kiss they share is light, it’s tender and sweet and so _so_ far from meaningless. 

It feels a little awkward, a little unfamiliar, for _both_ of them, no matter how many people Arthur kissed before. He coaxes Maleagant’s lips open, he answers his gentle, almost shy caresses, he traces with his fingers the shell of his ear before burying them in his wet hair. 

Arthur doesn’t stop kissing Maleagant even when they finally find the right rhythm, even when everything else ceases to matter, and when the song starts in Maleagant’s throat — quiet, nothing more than a humming at first — it tastes of sweetness and adoration on Arthur’s lips. 

His head spins. 

A moan escapes his lips, light and breathy, the pleasure spreads in warm waves throughout his whole body. It feels like nothing he’s ever experienced, it’s exciting, _titillating_ , it’s— 

Arthur’s head is a mess. It’s empty of thought, the feelings _overwhelm_ him, Maleagant’s song fills him to the brim as he swallows it with each and every one of his kisses. It reaches Arthur’s core and he won’t _ever_ be rid of it. 

He barely remembers how to breathe, he struggles to stay afloat, clutching at Maleagant's shoulders like it’s a lifeline, but he knows without a doubt he won’t drown, not when they are one— at this very moment, they are _one._

It doesn’t feel like the beginning. 

It feels _inevitable_ , it feels like something that was meant to be, it feels like another step on the way they’ve started without even realizing it, and that unconscious choice he will never, ever regret. 

He doesn’t wish to let go.

And he doesn’t. 


	5. don’t want to come back down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear one day i'm going to edit this properly, but uh... let's just hope there aren't too many glaring mistakes  
> there is only an epilogue left and I initially planned to post the last chapter & the epilogue at the same time, but I think I'd rather leave you guys in suspense  
> because I'm evil

Arthur has never felt dissatisfied with who he is and what he has. 

He was the firstborn son of the High-King, he lived his whole life in luxury and peace. His father wasn’t a kind man, too distant and too demanding, but Arthur’s mother was loving and gentle. She never denied him the affection he craved. 

Arthur had no trouble making friends, even if he wasn’t quite content with the inevitable inequality between them that his status brought, and while he failed to find a partner, a person he could fall in love with, he still had his whole life ahead of him. There was no need to rush. 

He’s never felt dissatisfied, but— 

It seems he’s also never been truly _happy_. 

His mother used to tell him that he has a big heart, that it is filled to the brim with affection and love, and one day he’ll find someone to share all of these feelings with. He’ll fall in love inevitably and quickly and he will give everything he has for the one he’ll choose. 

Arthur denied this. He rolled his eyes and chuckled and silently shook his head, but the truth is that he wanted his mother’s prophecy to be fulfilled. 

He just didn’t quite realize how much he _needed_ it.

Falling in love feels a little bit like drowning. It’s just as swift, impossible to stop, it fills his lungs not with saltwater, but something _different_ , aching and all-consuming and oh so _sweet._

Arthur welcomes it, he _cherishes_ it. 

He doesn’t long for another breath of air. 

In truth, not much has changed since he shared his first kiss with Maleagant, since he finally ceased to doubt that their attraction is mutual. Their touches, their kisses are no longer chaste, they are _sensual_ in a way that undeniably conveys affection.

They spend almost all of their time together, bar those rare moments when Maleagant swims away to bring more freshwater and food. 

Arthur was immensely pleased to discover that Maleagant is just as tactile as him, no matter that his kind doesn’t value the touch that much. He needs his silence sometimes, a chance to be left alone with his thoughts, but he’s never opposed to being _physically_ close to each other. 

Some days they talk for hours, Maleagant’s head resting on Arthur’s stomach, Arthur’s fingers carefully untangling the mess of Maleagant’s curls. It is an opportunity to learn about their realms, their culture, their history. 

Arthur is fascinated by the things he only recently discovered, he craves to understand what they truly have in common and what sets them apart. 

He wants to know about the war that was once waged between their peoples, he wants to know about the peace that followed. Why did things turn out the way the did? Was there a chance to prevent it? 

Is there a chance to _mend_ what’s broken? 

When he becomes the High-King, it’s something he _needs_ to consider. 

Right now, the only thing he can do is listen, and it is never _boring_ with Maleagant. Arthur is enchanted by the soft lilt of his voice, his passion for the things he truly cares about, his pointed, clever remarks, and his acerbic humor. 

He’d never met a person so captivating, so endlessly complex, so— easy to fall in love with. 

Arthur knows that there might be plenty of people who’d disagree with him on that matter, but that’s still _his_ truth and he refuses to renounce it. 

Maleagant is often melancholic and moody, he has a penchant for drama, he’s not always kind and can be somewhat self-centered. Sometimes he’s painfully honest, but more often than not he keeps his true thoughts and feelings hidden. 

He’s not _perfect_ , far from it, but Arthur wouldn’t want him any other way. 

“You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?” Maleagant’s voice cuts into his musings. It sounds vaguely amused instead of irritated, but that’s probably because Arthur doesn’t actually have a _habit_ of tuning him out. 

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, a little embarrassed to be caught like that. It’s not that he has no interested in what Maleagant has to say to him, it’s quite the opposite of that, but— 

“Your song is terribly distracting,” he says.

He skims his fingers down the length of Maleagant’s tail that lies across his lap. The scales at the lower part of it, right over the fin, feel rougher to touch, dry and somewhat flaky. They also tend to make Maleagant’s skin _itch_ , which he reluctantly confessed a few days ago, and since then it’s become Arthur’s new favorite task to— well, _groom_ him. The song that his careful ministrations bring is always soft and pleased and relaxed. It reminds Arthur of cats’ purring, which he really can’t help but to find awfully endearing. Not that he’d ever say that aloud. 

He may be reckless by nature, but he does _not_ want to risk Maleagant’s wrath. 

“Your fingers are terribly distracting,” Maleagant murmurs. 

His voice sounds lower and a little bit husky, his tail twitches ever so slightly, and if Arthur didn’t know better he’d probably read this as a sign of desire, but— 

In _this_ , the song tells him so much more than body language. 

Sometimes he wonders if there is something wrong with him because discovering the differences between him and Maleagant seems exciting rather than worrying, they are something he needs to _embrace_ , not overcome. And yet— 

They belong to different worlds, they are of different _species_. It’s clear in the way they think and express themselves, in the things they deem natural or embarrassing, and just like their minds, their _bodies_ aren’t alike. 

Arthur doesn’t dare to bring up the topic of coupling. He doesn’t think they are truly _compatible_ that way, but mostly he’s deterred by the distinct feeling that Maleagant isn’t exactly _comfortable_ with things of more carnal nature. 

He never outright refuses Arthur’s advances, but he stirs them into another territory, turning their touches into something that _soothes_ and not excites. 

It doesn’t feel _wrong_ , Arthur still enjoys it plenty and he doesn’t see a problem in relieving tension while Maleagant is away. It’s certainly not the most important part in relationship, it’s just— 

Perhaps foolishly, but he’s worried that Maleagant doesn’t truly find him attractive. He’s worried that their differences are _repulsive_ for Maleagant, that he finds Arthur too foreign and weird, that he still sees him as a _pet_ rather than a partner. 

“Arthur?” Maleagant calls. “Is something bothering you? You seem awfully distracted.” 

Arthur sends him a quick apologetic smile. 

He didn’t even notice when he stopped his absentminded caress or when Maleagant’s song quieted, but without it, the silence in the cave feels tense and _wrong_. 

There are way too many things that bother him these days, they poison his happiness with doubt, they make him restless and worried when there is no soothing melody to make it all go away.

He wants nothing more than to prolong this moment of blissfulness, to never doubt that his newborn feelings are mutual, to never fear that they will _hurt_ him in the end. 

He wants to believe that his dream of peace could be realized. 

He wants to believe that Maleagant shares it too.

Arthur has never thought himself a coward, and yet at this very moment, he feels like he is. He’s _afraid_ to bring up the topics of any importance or even simply ask— 

He will. He _promises_ himself he will. His stay here won’t last much longer and sooner rather than later they won’t have another _choice_ but to talk. Today, though— 

Today Arthur wants to bask in his happiness, no matter how naive it is. 

“I’m truly sorry.” He feels his smile grow softer. “I swear, I’ll find a way to make it up for you.” 

His fingertips brush along the longest fin of Maleagant’s tail, one of the places that are especially sensitive to touch. Arthur discovered plenty of them, Maleagant’s fins and the skin around his gills, the line where his scales start, his wrists and that tiny spot right behind his ear. 

He _loves_ to caress each and every one of them, with his finger or with his lips. He loves to watch the way Maleagant’s eyes grow warmer and his expression softens, and his song— 

His song is born anew. It comes from the depths of Maleagant’s throat, it shifts _lower_ the higher Arthur’s touch travels. 

Carefully, Arthur moves the tail off his lap, then shifts to place a quick kiss to Maleagant’s stomach. It quivers ever so slightly as he traces with his lips the outline of the scales, as he catches with his teeth the tender skin right under the belly button. 

Maleagant breathes out a silent laugh. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging Arthur higher until he’s particularly lying atop of him. 

His song is a quiet, low rumbling at the back of his throat. It tastes of pleasure and warmth, of faint amusement and something different, unnamed but lovely all the same. 

Arthur kisses Maleagant’s lips to savor the song, he can almost _taste_ the emotions at the root of his tongue. It’s heady, it’s almost _overwhelming_. It clouds his thoughts and makes his body feel warmer. The only time he felt something even close to this was years ago when his cousin brought some fragrant smoking weeds from the far east. They tasted almost as sweet, they made his head spin almost as fast, but this— 

This feels so much _better_. 

“Do you like it?” Arthur murmurs. He forgets that he doesn’t _want_ to know — not really, not yet. “When I— When we’re together like this, do you like it?”

He leaves a trail of soft, featherlight kisses across the edge of Maleagant’s gills, presses his lips to a tiny mole on his neck, then once again one to his temple. He watches Maleagant’s eyelashes flutter and his lips part, and the song is _freed_ , sounding bolder, and stronger than moments before. 

“I do,” Amusement in Maleagant’s voice lightens the melody of his song, his eyes are bright and clear and only slightly mocking. “Rest assured, Arthur, you would _know_ if I didn’t.” 

Arthur huffs a laugh, unable to hide how relieved he is to hear that at least some doubts are unfounded. Distracted, he misses the moment Maleagant rolls them over to pin him under his body, its weight heavy and grounding and inexplicably titillating. 

His hair tickle Arthur’s cheek as he leans down to trace with his fingertips the curve of his stomach and the outline of his ribs, to tease his nipples with fleeting, barely-there touches. The song floods Arthur’s veins, it makes his blood hotter and its flow faster, it fills his whole body with overwhelming _bliss_. 

He hears the moan escaping his lips and it sounds just as _helpless_ as he feels. 

Maleagant presses his mouth, demanding and almost unbearably hot, to the hollow of Arthur’s throat as if he’s trying to _taste_ the sound he makes. 

“ _This_ ,” he murmurs, “sounds almost like our songs. You really can’t hold it back, can you?” 

He sounds so _smug_ Arthur can almost _feel_ his lips curving into a mocking, self-satisfied smile, but there is nothing he can say to deny it. He truly _can’t_ control himself, he feels drunk in a way no wine could make him, he feels so overwhelmingly _good_ it shouldn't be possible— not this intense, not this soon. 

“Maleagant,” he breaths out because all other words escape him. 

The weight of Maleagant on top of him, his kisses, his song is just _too much_. Arthur feels desire stirring in his belly, arousal making his cock twitch in anticipation of finally _sharing_ the pleasure. 

A tiny part of him is almost afraid that Maleagant will notice his body’s reaction, will know exactly what it means, but it’s so hard to remember _why_ it might be a bad idea when all he wants—

All he wants is for Maleagant to never stop singing, never stop being with him, never stop touching him _just so._

A soft whine escapes his lips as Maleagant’s fingers tickle his lower belly before they slip further down, tracing the faint outline of his cock. 

“Good gods,” Arthur exhales, his voice hoarse and his words almost slurred. It’s hard to remember how to speak, but at the same time, he can’t _not_ to. “ _Please_ , don’t stop. The way you make me feel—” 

His whole body is tingling with the sensation he can’t quite describe, the one that _can’t_ be an arousal for it’s so much more intense than that, so much more _complex_. It is the desire that makes him hard and aching for release, but there is something different mixed in it too, a gentler warmth, only slightly tinged with a spicy tang of possessiveness. 

Arthur knows that not every emotion he feels belongs to him, he knows that Maleagant’s song binds itself to the salt and water of his blood, he knows that they are fused and can’t be separated, but why should he care? 

It is the _purest_ feeling he ever experienced, and if only he could prolong this moment into eternity—

If only he could put this into words— 

If— 

“Maleagant.” He smiles, open and genuine, and it’s met with an answering twitch of Maleagant’s lips, more smug and self-satisfied than gentle, but it’s— “Breathtaking. _You_ are absolutely breathtaking. Gods, never in my life I thought I’d get to meet someone like you, someone I could—” 

He shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to stop himself from arching to meet another too-light touch, as sweet as it is cruel. 

Maleagant _must_ know how he makes him feel, he must know that he _has_ him, his body and his soul, and Arthur doesn’t want them back. 

“Someone you could?..” Maleagant prompts gently, his lips pressing to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. 

He _wants_ to hear it, doesn’t he? He wants to coax out the confession of the feeling that’s been growing way too fast in Arthur’s foolish heart. The seed of it was tiny, but its roots are strong, it’s flowers are beautiful and fragrant, and they cloud his mind with their heady aroma. 

“Someone I could grow to care for so deeply,” he says. “Someone who could become my whole world, my first true love. Sometimes it feels too much, but I don’t want it to _stop_. I’d rather forget myself than forget you, and— Gods,” he laughs, breathless. “Your song makes it so hard to think, I can barely remember my name.” 

Arthur shuts his eyes and tries to breathe deeper so that the air would clear his head before he embarrasses himself even further, confessing all the things— 

Is there anything left to confess? 

He almost misses the moment Maleagant stills and his touch disappears, but when his _song_ dies out too it feels like such an overwhelming loss, like there is an _emptiness_ inside of Arthur that can never be filled. 

The sound that escapes Arthur’s lips sounds longing and confused. His body is tense and waiting for release, his mind is still foggy, but the worry that floods his heart is sharp and sobering. 

He opens his eyes to look at Maleagant, almost _fearful_ of what he’s going to see. He can’t give a name to what scares him, but deep in his heart, he _knows_ what it is. 

Was it his words, his too rushed confession that he gave away too easily, too carelessly for it to sound meaningful and true? 

Was it his body, its treacherous reactions he couldn’t control this time that in the end were truly off-putting to Maleagant? It seemed like he didn’t mind it just moments ago, but— 

Maleagant’s expression is calm and almost soft, but there is a faint shadow of doubt in his eyes, wariness, and something _else_. Something Arthur has no hope to decipher without the song he got used to relying on far too much. 

“Maleagant?” he murmurs. “What— Have I done something wrong?” 

Maleagant shakes his head. His lips curl into a pale resemblance of a smile, and while the doubt in his eyes doesn’t disappear, it doesn’t shine brighter than the tenderness in them. He leans in to kiss Arthur, the press of his mouth gentle and sweet and almost — not _quite_ — chaste. 

Arthur answers him readily, although a part of him still feels confused and inexplicably guilty. He raises his hand to stroke Maleagant’s hair in a simpler, more familiar caress, he doesn’t deepen the kiss even if that’s what he wants— that’s what his _body_ wants, but his mind calls for a break, for a chance to talk to each other and make sure that there is truly nothing _wrong—_

Maleagant kisses him again. He silences half-formed protests, he leaves Arthur no chance to escape, and when the song fills the silence once more, quiet and a little hesitant but _there_ , he finds that he doesn’t _want_ to escape.

Not now, not ever.

The tingling warmth spreads through his whole body, it feels just as titillating and heady as it did before, so maybe Arthur simply imagines the echo of sadness in the melody, a tinge of regret and guilt. These feelings must be truly _his_ , he thinks—

Maleagant’s palm covers Arthur’s cock, and all the thoughts desert his head. 

A touch so simple shouldn’t — _couldn’t_ — be enough, he’s way too old for that, and yet he feels a telltale pressure building up in his belly. He feels like he’s tripping over the edge and _falling_ , and it happens so fast there is no chance to stop it. 

Arthur curses through his teeth and arches his back, he grips Maleagant’s shoulders tightly enough to leave bruises, he curses once more and moans and chases the touch, he almost blacks out from how _intense_ the pleasure feels. 

He comes right in his breeches, which should be embarrassing and disgusting, but he can’t quite remember _why_. He hides his face in the crook of Maleagant’s neck, fruitlessly trying to remember how to breathe, he shudders from the aftershocks of pleasure as Maleagant’s careful fingers stroke the side of his neck and his hair. The song’s melody changes and shifts to something more soothing— it would sound like a _lullaby_ if not for the self-satisfied tinge to it. 

Arthur blinks and laughs. 

“I feel gross,” he complains because _now_ he certainly does. “And these are my only breeches.” 

Saltwater isn’t exactly _suited_ for doing laundry, and Arthur doesn’t look forward to the time he’ll have to spend naked, waiting for the breeches to dry. He sighs. He really needs to return to the castle, no matter how much he wishes to stay. 

Maleagant presses a tiny kiss between Arthur’s eyebrows, then finally rolls over to lie by his side. 

“And whose fault is that?” he says. 

“Yours, obviously,” Arthur grumbles. 

There is too much smugness in Maleagant’s expression to deny any credit for Arthur’s sorry state. He feels all kinds of _uncomfortable_ , and no song is capable of changing _that_. 

Still, it was worth it. It felt _good_ , much better than even his wildest fantasies, which may sound ridiculous for how tame their first moment of intimacy was, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He only wishes he could return the pleasure, to see Maleagant just as _undone_ as Arthur felt, but— 

They will have time for that once they figure out how to keep their bond intact after they return to their realms. 

They will have time to voice what’s left unsaid, to resolve every lingering doubt and every worry. 

They will have time — all the time in the world — to be together. 

There is nothing that can tear them apart. 

_That_ Arthur believes. 


	6. epilogue

There is a storm raging at the sea. 

It’s wrathful and untamable, it’s uncontrollable and wild just like the one that caught Arthur in its midst just shy of a month ago. It brought him to an enigmatic, complex, enchanting creature who stole his heart with frightening ease, and then— 

Then, he tossed it aside. 

It’s been two days since Arthur returned home to his father’s well-hidden relief and his mother’s sincere joy. If things were different, he would be celebrating his homecoming with his family and friends, he would be rejoicing in the warmth of his chambers, in the richness of food and tart sweetness of the wine. If things were different, he would be looking forward to the moment he could return to Maleagant’s gentle embraces and to his sweet, lulling songs. If things were different— 

But they are _not_. 

There is no place for hope in the reality that Arthur still struggles to accept. 

He won’t see Maleagant again. He _can’t_ unless he chooses to search every corner of the seabed looking for the merfolk’s hidden realm, and it’s not the toughness of the task that stops him, but the firm conviction that he’ll never be welcome there. 

His broken heart can’t be an excuse to threaten the realm’s very existence. 

His broken heart can’t be an excuse to pursue Maleagant’s affections when he no longer desires to give them. 

Arthur knows it. He _knows_ it, he just cannot _let go._

He cannot stop wondering what went so terribly wrong between them. 

In his mind, he constantly replays the moment it all ended, he recalls every tiny detail of the last few days that they spent together, but the answer evades him. 

He knows that something happened on that accursed day when they were intimate for the first — the last — time. He was too quick, too eager to dismiss the unease he felt, but he didn’t _forget_ that feeling. 

Yet, while it was silenced and dormant, he truly believed that nothing changed between them. They shared a meal just like they used to, they talked about something meaningless, they laughed, genuine but perhaps not carefree, and then— 

Then, Maleagant left. He _left_ which shouldn’t have been a cause to worry, but the sun rose and set without his return. Arthur spent the next night tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep when his troubled mind kept wondering if he’ll ever see his lover again. 

He did. He _did_ see him when the morning came, but that was to be the last time. 

His parting gift. 

Maleagant’s eyes were haunted then, his expression tight and his body restless, but no _song_ betrayed his inner turmoil. It was locked, _denied_ to them both. 

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Maleagant said, ignoring Arthur’s hurried, worried questions about where he’d been, if he’s alright, if _they_ are— 

He sounded choked up, he sounded _pained_ , but there was no hesitation in his eyes, not even a shadow of doubt in his voice. He was _dismissing_ Arthur as if everything that happened between them should’ve been left in the past and lose all meaning at all. 

“When will we see each other again?” Arthur asked. 

He already knew — he _felt_ — what his answer would be, but he still clung to the hope that their goodbye didn’t have to be final.

“We won’t,” Maleagant said. “It’s better this way.” 

And that was the end of them. Abrupt, unexpected, it wasn’t something Arthur knew how to fight. He _tried_ , of course he tried, but Malegant simply swam away, deaf to his desperate pleas to stay, to explain, to talk things through— 

There was no hope to stop him. Any attempt to chase him would’ve been futile, _suicidal_ , but Arthur still had to stop himself from doing just that. 

He didn’t stop himself from waiting. He thought that Maleagant had acted rashly, had failed to think things through, but if — _when_ — he changed his mind, Arthur would be _waiting_ for him. 

It took him four days to give up. 

The food ran out on the second one, the freshwater lasted not much longer. No matter how much he loved Maleagant — loves him _still_ — trading his life for the merest chance to see him again was _foolish_ , much more so than every other stupid thing he’s ever done. 

It still felt like _a betrayal_ , it felt like breaking the promise he once gave himself, but— 

He had to head home. Following the sun, choosing to trust Maleagant’s reassurance that it was possible to make it, he swam to the shore as fast as he could, pushing himself beyond limits, wishing to be _away_ and running from the temptation to stay. 

Exhausted, his mind so much more than his body, he lay on the beach, struggling to regain his breathing. He looked at the clear sky and wished he would have drowned.

Weeks ago, in the storm that brought him to the cave, he wished he would have _drowned_.

It lasted but a moment, this foolish thought brought by misery and pain and longing, but he was _hurting—_

He’s hurting still, and he doesn’t know when this is going to end. 

A part of him is ashamed of reacting this deeply, of being heartbroken after such a fleeting, short-lived romance, but a part much bigger doesn’t want to discard and cheapen his feelings just because they were born too early. 

They are _his_ , they are true, and try as he might, he cannot deny them. 

Even if it would’ve put an end to his pain. 

Arthur exhales. He drags his palm down his face, wet from saltwater the sea throws at him, wet from the _tears_ that fail to help. 

Sometimes he wishes he were a siren. 

His heart is full of misery and longing and _love_ , it feels like it could _burst_ , and there is nothing he could do to let these feelings out. There is no _song_ in him, no chance to tell the world of how he suffers. No chance to tell _Maleagant_ of everything the words were hopeless to convey. Perhaps he would’ve heard him then. 

Sometimes Arthur wishes he were a siren, but he is _not_. His heart is human, his voice is too, and there is no point in crying. 

There is a storm raging at the sea. 

Turning to head back to the city, Arthur leaves it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet Arthur isn't the only one unpleasantly surprised by "abrupt and unexpected" ending  
> there is technically a sequel planned, but I don't think I have enough motivation to write it  
> if you're curious about what was going to happen in the second part, feel free to ask


End file.
